All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother.
The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. His daughter’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his beloved wife.
But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to.
Time had not refined his daughter’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother.
Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women.
She possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom.
The Patron also noticed she had grown more animated.
He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.
She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas.
The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east.
The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling.
His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron. He couldn’t understand how that happened, for nothing had changed.
She was still despised everywhere she went.
Rooms fell silent on her entrance. People stared at her or ignored her just as they had for years.
But the girl was no longer stricken by it.
Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear while she went through her day as alone as ever. She now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even.
After years of ostracism, she had become someone who didn’t need anybody.
He wasn’t the only one to notice the changes in his daughter.
Her lady’s maid seemed more intimidated by her than she used to be.
She stopped using the back laces of her gowns as a corset, dressing her mistress in the manner she found most comfortable.
The stable boys often gazed after her when she left the stables, and even the Cook stared at her whenever she passed with troubled eyes.
His daughter had become fascinating, but she was a stranger to them all.
As the Patron observed her, he found himself wishing he knew what her thoughts were.
Yet every time he looked into her cold blue eyes, he remembered the last time he’d spoken to her. The horror the Patron had felt when he had found no heartbeat, followed with his accusations, and her protest of innocence.
“How could you do this? You are far too young!”
The Patron could still see the bewilderment in her eyes as the girl shook her head.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
But the Patron just turned his back and walked away, leaving his daughter to her fate.
Sometimes he had overheard people express admiration for his mercy in allowing his daughter to stay on at the house.
And every time the Patron felt sick inside.
He was haunted by the decision he’d made, and the doubts he buried in the back of his mind became a dull roar that made his head ache.
The conversation he had with the Cook one morning gave no relief to his growing unease.
The Patron almost groaned aloud when he came into the dining parlor and saw the expanse of the Cook’s wide back.
Her table-side manner left much to be desired.
He was surprised to see her so soon, for the Cook only left her stoves when the kitchen girls were too ill to serve. It was the peak of autumn, too early for the maladies to start going around the village.
For the sake of keeping his patience, he thought of the supper he enjoyed the previous night.
“By the way,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how impressed I’ve been with your recipes this summer. But last night you outdid yourself.”
“Thank you, Patron!” the Cook said, her eyes lighting up.
“I especially liked the soup, but I didn’t recognize the meat. What was it?”
“Well, yesterday afternoon I got a pair of wild hares freshly killed. The soup was already done, but I thought they’d go well. So I diced the meat small to fry up quick and threw it in.”
“That explains it,” he said. “I haven’t had rabbit for a long time. How did you get it?”
The Patron was surprised when the Cook didn’t answer right away.
Her fleshy features puckered at the question, which was never a good sign.
He leaned back in his chair and waited.
“From your daughter, Patron.”
He set his coffee down.
The Cook flushed and her speech was rushed.
“Truth be told, Patron, I think your praise of my dinners has more to do with her hunting than my cooking. Near every day she comes to the kitchen with something.”
“Does she? And how long has she been doing this?”
“Since last spring. She brought in a string of fish out of nowhere one day.”
The Cook hesitated before going on, her tone dropping to a whisper.
“I must say, Patron, it’s been a long time since she’s done anything like that. Not since-”
“I remember quite well when she used to bring wild meat to the kitchen.”
